


rituals and sacred (sub)texts

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Thor (Marvel), Extra Treat, M/M, Misunderstandings, Ritual Sex, Thor: Ragnarok (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24015118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Thor shakes his head. “It’s the goddamn ritual," he protests. "That’s the only reason you’re here. I don’t fault you. I don’t, I swear it. But I can’t take what I haven’t-”“According to tradition,” Heimdall reminds him, “you won’t be taking anything. Except what I give you.”
Relationships: Heimdall/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	rituals and sacred (sub)texts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



> Thank you for the amazing prompts for this pairing, they were fun to read! I hope you like this treat :)

The ceremony used to take place in a lower palace chamber. No windows, lit only by torches set as a perimeter around the room. Gold sculptures looked on of the All-Fathers and Mothers of old. A hand-stitched blanket was set upon the floor. Standing atop it in the sacred space signaled the start of the ceremony.

The Statesman is a poor substitute, but circumstance requires change. The room chosen by Thor has a single window looking out into the vastness of space. A moss green quilt has been set upon the floor, and Thor removes his boots before standing on it. Removal of shoes was never mandatory in the texts, but Heimdall takes his off as well.

A day has passed since the destruction of Asgard. The gaping chasm of what they have lost has settled into general numbness. Those who remain have proven up to the task of banding together in a time of great upheaval. Ones without healing experience still offer clean hands to assist. The proposal of food rations is met with quiet understanding. Blessedly, their Sakaarian vessel carries an impressive liquor stock.

All that remains now is the naming of their new king. This is pageantry, not mystery. All aboard know it will be Thor seated in the captain's chair, the closest thing they have to a throne. Even Loki, though he scoffs, has raised no objection.

But with the loss of their home - the palace, the art, the history - pageantry is more important than ever.

Thor wears his father's eye guard, and though he is younger than Odin was when he lost his eye the look suits him. He greets Heimdall in a simple tunic and pants procured from somewhere on board the Ark. “I would suggest washing anything on this ship before you wear it,” was Loki’s mild advice. Given his insight on Sakaarian...social practice, all heed his words.

A tint to Thor’s cheeks betrays a dip into the spirit that sits open on his counter. Thor releases a slow breath. He is a picture of calm, but Heimdall hears a faint waver at the end of his exhale.

“We don’t have to do this, right?” Thor says abruptly. “There’s no one here. It’s not like anyone will know.”

Heimdall lifts a brow. “Your first official act as king would be to lie to your people?”

Thor looks appropriately abashed. “It’s not _lying_ , really. We’re still here. After tonight, you’ll make the appointment official. Besides,” he smiles, “it’s not as if this ceremony was always held before the coronation. We didn't even discuss it before I was to take the throne the first time.”

How long ago that failed ceremony seems. Much has changed since those days when Frost Giants were the height of Asgard’s concerns.

“I discussed the ritual at the time with your father,” Heimdall tells Thor. By Thor’s grimace, this is a history lesson he did not want or need.

“Come on, Heimdall,” Thor argues. “Our people could hardly blame me for ending such an outdated tradition. The essence of Asgard already flows through my veins. This is just a performance.”

“There is the dark magic, Thor,” Heimdall reminds him quietly.

Thor shakes his head. “You’ve already shared your eyes with me. With you and Loki by my side and the might of our people combined, we have what we need. Trying to acquire more power would be - it’s selfish, isn’t it? It’s greed, stealing strength when Asgard has already bestowed so much.”

“Stealing,” Heimdall echoes slowly.

Thor must not like the look on his face. He grimaces again. “I mean, be honest.” He looks into Heimdall’s eyes as best he can with one instead of two. “You can’t actually want this,” Thor says. “I know, I _know_ , it’s tradition. Our ways are more important today than any day that's come before. But, you don’t want to do this. You don’t.”

Heimdall does not comment. His neutral expression becomes a frown.

Thor spots the change even with only one eye. He laughs, short and bitter. “Right. Exactly. Let’s just not do it. I’ll explain to the people. We don’t have to lie.”

Heimdall should have anticipated this resistance. Thor has suffered a great loss, as they all have. The timing of this ceremony is not ideal. He also can’t blame Thor for finding the tradition antiquated. It is, especially for one who already carries the power of Asgard at his fingertips.

It is the vehemence of Thor’s disapproval that Heimdall did not expect, but of course Thor does not want this. Of course it's yet another setback at a moment of personal calamity.

Heimdall nods. “You are king now, Thor. If you choose not to complete the ceremony, that's your right,” he says.

Thor swallows. When he nods, he isn’t looking at Heimdall. “Right. Well, I’m sorry. I should have spoken to you earlier. We could have avoided all this.”

He backs off the blanket and returns to his dresser, pouring himself a fresh glass of spirit. He shows the bottle to Heimdall, but Heimdall shakes his head. Shrugging, Thor downs the contents of the glass in one go. He winces at the burn. His back is to Heimdall, but Heimdall sees him in the mirror.

Heimdall’s mouth twitches. “Has this matter really driven you to such a state?”

Thor laughs off the question. “I’m just relieved we’ve called the whole thing off. I didn’t think I could live with myself. Forcing this on you. It’s not right.”

Heimdall chuckles as well. 'Forcing this on him.' As much as Thor has grown in this past decade, it can be easy to forget that he is still frustratingly young.

“This ritual is an honor, Thor, as much mine as the king or queen it’s bestowed upon,” Heimdall says.

Thor looks chastised, shoulders slumping. It isn’t the proper way to build the esteem of a new king.

“But you’re right,” Heimdall continues. “If you do not care for this tradition, it should not be. Force is a two-sided coin, one you should not have to flip so early in your reign.” Heimdall sets a comforting hand on Thor’s back.

It’s a surprise when Thor flinches away. Thor barks another strange laugh once he’s maneuvered to a safe difference. “Right,” Thor says. “Thanks. For understanding.”

Heimdall frowns. “Thor?” It takes a moment for Thor to meet his gaze. When he does, his expression has calmed, the momentary panic gone. Thor looks tired. It’s a feeling they all share, but Heimdall can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

“The healers saw to my eye,” Thor assures him. “Loki even said the guard suits me. Can you believe it?”

“What about the rest of you?” Heimdall asks. “Your back-”

“I’m sore like everyone, I’m sure,” Thor says. “It’s going to take time and rest. Have you slept since we boarded, Heimdall?”

“Have you?” Heimdall counters, though he knows the answer to be no. Thor has not slept, because Heimdall’s eyes have been on him since they boarded. He’s followed Thor to the medical wing, the supply rooms, the bridge, the engine rooms. Thor has been everywhere except a bed.

Thor chuckles. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I swear I’ll do the same.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Heimdall says.

“Watch me if you’d like,” Thor replies. The words are a challenge Heimdall intends to take him up on. Heimdall nods, but he’s hesitant to leave. Not when he knows something is not right.

“I understand your decision,” Heimdall tells Thor, “but if I’m being honest I’ve looked forward to this day.”

Thor snorts. “I'll bet. An outdated ritual. One forced to bed another when they have no interest in such things. It’s from a day when freedom of thought and feeling were not allowed, don’t you think? That a king or queen should take what they haven’t earned. It’s crazy!”

Heimdall stares at Thor.

Seconds pass in silence before Heimdall shakes his head. He crosses the room and resumes his place standing barefoot on the green blanket. Thor frowns. “Heimdall?”

“Come on then,” Heimdall says.

Thor doesn’t, but he swallows visibly. “I thought we'd decided-”

Heimdall interrupts by peeling his tunic over his head. It’s a gamble, a trust of his instinct and his eyes. He tosses the fabric aside.

Thor moves his lips a few times but only manages a feeble, “Um… You don’t… I thought we-”

Heimdall loosens the leather belt he wears and snakes it from his waist. It’s easy without it to peel his slacks from his legs and deposit them in the same pile as his shirt. Nude atop the quilt, Heimdall waits. Thor’s stare sits on him. The weight of it is mountainous.

Thor flounders under this new situation like a drowning man. “You’re more loyal to Asgard than anyone.” Even with the short distance between them, Heimdall barely hears Thor's voice. He sounds less sure than ever in his life. “You would do anything for our people. I can’t-”

“Is that what you see?”

Heimdall holds Thor's single eye, a hand drifting down to cup himself. He has never been one to display himself like this, always more content to look than be seen. But it is gratifying to squeeze himself and hear Thor's disbelieving croak answer. Thor’s single eye holds the honesty of two. The longing in it is undeniable.

Heimdall coaxes himself to hardness, cock swelling to fill the tight wind of his hand. Thor licks his lips. Heimdall doubts Thor even realizes he’s done it.

Thor shakes his head. “It’s the goddamn ritual," he protests. "That’s the only reason you’re here. I don’t fault you. I don’t, I swear it. But I can’t take what I haven’t-”

“According to tradition,” Heimdall reminds him, “you won’t be taking anything. Except what I give you.”

Thor’s breath catches in his throat. His eye widens, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. A new strain pulls at Thor’s throat, tight and hungry.

“Come on, my king,” Heimdall says.

Thor joins Heimdall on the quilt without any further hesitation. He jerks his tunic up over his head and tosses it blindly behind him.

Heimdall chuckles and sets hands on Thor’s shoulders. They thrums with tension. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” he says.

“Sure,” Thor agrees, nodding stiffly. “Great. Um, carry on then.”

Heimdall leans in to kiss Thor’s forehead. He follows with his temples. His cheekbones. His jaw. His chin. Thor’s lips part hopefully, but Heimdall does not allow him, no matter the temptation. Instead, he strays to Thor’s neck, his beard a dull scratch against Heimdall’s lips. Heimdall kisses each tendon down to where Thor’s neck meets his shoulder.

Thor tenses under him. Heimdall squeezes his shoulders. “Relax.”

Thor doesn’t quite manage it as Heimdall continues to his chest. Here, Thor’s clavicle is treated like a treasure worthy of Asgard’s vault. Heimdall follows Thor’s pectorals and pauses to kiss the tip of a single nipple. It pulls up in a pink bud, and Thor makes a low sound. Heimdall can’t help himself, he allows his tongue to dip out for a taste.

A strong hand catches Heimdall’s chin and forces his head to rise. Heimdall expects admonishment for the liberties taken, but Thor kisses him instead. He is forceful and intent, and Heimdall squeezes Thor’s shoulders for balance. This isn’t part of tradition, but Heimdall does not mind playing a bit loose with the rules.

When they part, Thor runs a thumb over Heimdall’s lips. There is no smugness in him. Thor looks fascinated. Like he can’t believe his finger has the chance to trace Heimdall’s mouth. Heimdall kisses after his thumb, and Thor’s eye darkens.

“Be patient,” Heimdall tells him.

“Easy for you to say,” Thor grumbles. It isn’t, though, warm and willing as Thor looks. He has always been beautiful, Odin’s golden son, but somehow now he is more so. Thor knows what it is to live now, and what it is to lose. He knows how to fight for what is important. How to fail and carry on. And though he does not know it yet, he knows how to be king.

Heimdall sinks to his knees. It is customary per tradition. A symbolic gesture. The prostration of Asgard’s mightiest warrior before its newest king. A sign of trust, of intent to follow.

Heimdall will follow Thor, there is no question. He’s followed Thor before this day, loyal to him even when it meant standing as a traitor before the All-Father.

Thor sets a hand on Heimdall's head, fingers in his braids. Had this day happened years ago, Heimdall can only imagine the pride he would have seen from Thor. The wide, lion grin that the sight of Heimdall in full submission would have inspired.

Now, Thor shakes his head faintly. He looks like he wants to protest. But he presses his lips together, thumb crossing Heimdall’s forehead. After a moment, Thor nods, and he manages a smile.

With permission gained, Heimdall’s mouth takes in Thor’s torso. Bruises litter his sides like muddy tracks on a clean floor. Thor begins to stir, and Heimdall enjoys the sight. Thor grows for him without touch, provoked only by the warmth of Heimdall’s breath.

Smiling, Heimdall dips to Thor’s thighs, their insides soft under his teeth. Thor groans, and the fingers in Heimdall’s hair tense. Heimdall turns and kisses Thor's fingers. Thor traces his cheeks and his mouth.

Heimdall can’t put a name to the emotion in Thor’s single eye, but the feeling bids him to part his lips. He gathers Thor’s fingers between them, tastes the sweetness of an errant drop of spirit as he sucks on the skin. Thor blinks as if he’s waking from a long sleep.

Heimdall releases Thor slowly and guides the damp hand to circle his own cock. Thor laughs in surprise. “Heimdall?”

“Wait,” Heimdall says, rising from the blanket. Thor shakes his head but follows Heimdall’s instruction. Heimdall hears the wet sound of his fingers. When Thor strokes himself, his back stretches in a long arch.

Thor stiffens when Heimdall kisses between his shoulder blades. He turns back, good eye straining for a glance. His breath puffs out when fingers slide down his spine. Fingers now dripping with orchid oil.

Heimdall slides an arm around Thor’s waist. The oil drips between them, from Thor’s back to Heimdall’s chest. Thor leans into him, and Heimdall glances over his shoulder. Catches sight of Thor's mouth-damp hand still circled around himself.

Heimdall eases back enough to guide his oil-slick hand between Thor’s legs. Thor grunts, but awkwardly steps out wider. Heimdall takes Thor's permission again, he doubts he will ever tire of it if Thor does not stop offering.

_Is a king fit to wear his crown?_

This line from the text always made Heimdall smile. Even in days of yore, their forefathers and mothers had a sense of humor.

This particular crown fits tightly. If Thor has been taken before, it has certainly been awhile. The air punches out of Thor’s lungs. He holds himself very still, a nervous flex to his back.

Heimdall kisses Thor’s neck. Thor chuckles breathlessly. “Go on,” he mumbles.

Heimdall chooses to listen to Thor’s body before his words. It tells Heimdall when Thor is ready for more, the subtle slacking of muscle wound tight as a coil. One finger is all Thor allows him for a time. Heimdall is content with enjoying the subtle ways that Thor responds to him. Thor turns back for Heimdall, a dazed look on his face. Heimdall kisses his temple. It’s enough to make Thor's single eye close.

Soon enough, Heimdall is able to open him wider. The strength of Thor’s body works against him in this case. He has more muscle to ease, greater defenses to penetrate. But Thor tries, breathing slowly. It is more gratifying to take his time, to feel Thor’s every thread ease. Heimdall relaxes Thor to the point that Thor loses himself. Heimdall crooks three fingers inside him and earns a body-shaking moan.

“Gods, Heimdall,” Thor gasps. He’s too far gone to sound embarrassed, spread and lax as he is. Oil drips from Heimdall’s fingers and dribbles between Thor’s thighs. It slides down Thor’s back too, slow as a dam breach.

“Open your eye,” Heimdall says, withdrawing. Thor hisses without him. He manages a low-lidded glance back.

Heimdall fills Thor in one smooth motion. Thor’s blue eye suddenly gleams gold.

It is not the first time Heimdall fulfills this duty, sight shared in consummation of Asgard’s ritual. But he struggles to recall a time when the connection was this intense. Heimdall's natural draw to Thor must be part of the equation. And the fact that Thor has shared Heimdall’s sight before.

But neither point explains the shock that singes Heimdall’s blood. Thor’s eye is Heimdall’s eye, and Heimdall’s eyes are Thor’s. Thor takes and is taken. His power is unspeakable. Heimdall feels it as if it is his own. The strength of the storm, a current powerful enough to build or destroy.

Thor has Asgard in his bones. His skin sings of it, flames crackling around the gold of his iris. Lightning sparks from his pores and twists around Heimdall’s waist. Heimdall burns from it, but it does not mark him. It dares not, for he is Thor, and Thor is him.

In Thor’s eye, Heimdall sees his father and mother. His forebears and their forebears. The bloody, wondrous history of their people. A people that still live, a people Thor will rule.

Thor reaches for Heimdall’s leg. Heimdall feels how close he is to buckling. Thor moans for Heimdall in Heimdall’s own voice. Heimdall feels himself penetrated, filled and spilling over. He buries himself in Thor, and Thor buries himself in Heimdall. They are one with all who have come before. They are dark magic. They are light.

Heimdall holds Thor closer, replacing Thor’s hand around himself with his own. Thor’s blood rushes through Heimdall's veins. Heimdall feels Thor's heart pound and knows the desperation in his bruising fingers.

Heimdall’s pleasure is Thor's. Thor’s loss of control is Heimdall’s. The old world lives, as does the path that lies before them.

Heimdall is not sure when they sink to the floor. He kneels, and Thor bows before him. Thor is stained with seed, stomach wet and leaking down his thighs. Heimdall touches Thor's back, watching it rise and fall with heavy breaths.

“You need rest,” Heimdall tells him.

Thor wearily looks back, eye its natural shade of blue. “You first,” he mumbles with a twitch of a smile.

He isn’t wrong, and Heimdall chuckles. Standing again is a struggle. Soreness courses through his legs and spreads like wings from his back. He holds out a hand. With a nod, Thor takes it. He grunts when he’s pulled to his feet. Heimdall sets a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“My king,” Heimdall says.

Thor shakes his head. “Not yet. Let me…” He looks at Heimdall, single eye shining unnaturally. “Not yet.”

Heimdall nods. As much as he can, with as much as he’s seen, he understands.

“Thor,” Heimdall says instead. This, Thor accepts.


End file.
